


Of Bucks and Marigolds

by Lokaal



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, You Have Been Warned, i cried, king and servant au, small hints of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokaal/pseuds/Lokaal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tragic love story of the King of Bucks and the Marigold Servant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Bucks and Marigolds

**Author's Note:**

> This work was beta'd by Delmire. 
> 
> This is my first time writing with these two, please be nice.

Beybridge was the most gorgeous of cities. As the name suggested, multiple bridges arched over a winding, cerulean blue river that cut through the city. The streets were full of banners of vivid blues and reds, carriages and carts were hauled along by strong horses, the citizens hurrying about to do whatever task they needed to this midday. The occasional armed guard could be seen patrolling, their plate armor gleaming. Everyone so oblivious to the workings inside the castle that loomed above them, all of the people walking over the cobblestone between tawny roofed houses. Bilbo watched them, his forearms on the windowsill and his chin on his forearms. The people looked as small as mice, and darted around just as quickly. 

Even through his chamber’s walls, he heard the king’s door slammed closed. “Baggins?” He called out, making Bilbo wince immediately. Someone was evidently not pleased. 

“I’m right here, Your Grace,” Bilbo answered promptly, leaving the comfort of his small servants’ chambers. King Thorin’s main chambers were as one would expect; a grand dark wood table dominating the center with a wide stone hearth behind. Double doors sat the opposite end of the room, carved with regal bucks around the frame, led to Thorin’s bedchambers. Tapestries of the breathtaking mountain scenery hung where they could be pulled over the shutters at night. 

Thorin was standing by his bedchamber’s doors, shoulders hunched and a dark look on his features. “I’m going hunting,” he announced testily, throwing open one of the doors. That meant Bilbo was to follow, which he immediately did. He would help his king change from his doublet with ornamental buttons into his leathers, furs and riding boots. “Those fucking fools,” Thorin grumbled, holding his arms out for Bilbo to remove his doublet. “They think they know better than I do. I was taught by both my grandfather and my father, and yet they think I don’t know how to manage my own kingdom?” 

“Which fools are we insulting this time, Your Grace?”

“My court. My noblemen, who are supposed to support me and my reign. God damn it, Baggins, why can’t they just believe me when I say I make the allegiances I do because those people have proven their reliability?” 

“Because they are ambitious,” Bilbo reached up and freed Thorin’s long, greying hair from his bear pelt cloak, careful not to let his fingertips linger too long on Thorin’s warm skin. “It’s in their nature.” 

Thorin tugged at his jerkin’s front then gestured to his hair. “Tie it for me.” 

Bilbo complied, using a strap of leather to tie it, plaits and all, into a tail. Once Thorin’s boots were on, he pulled immediately away from Bilbo. This had been happening only recently, yet Bilbo couldn’t think of anything he had done wrong. 

“Get ready, Baggins, and meet me down in the stables.” 

Bilbo froze where he was, about to reach to tidy up Thorin’s discarded clothes. “Your Grace?” 

“You heard me.” 

Nodding, Bilbo tidied hurriedly and left back to his own chambers. Hunting with the king wasn’t one of Bilbo’s duties. If Thorin went hunting for an entire day, occasionally Bilbo would be there in the woodlands waiting in a shaded tent for the king to rest. The hunting parties often included hounds and noblemen Thorin needed to win over. These days were always planned well in advance. He never actually went hunting. 

Changing in mildly suitable clothes, Bilbo hurried down the abundant staircases. He greeted the many servants who nodded to him or smiled on his way by. He made his way through the keep and down to the stables. Thorin was already mounted, his blue roan pawing the ground impatiently. There was already a bow over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows on his back. Two guards were nearby and on horseback also. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he would have guessed that this hunting trip was less spontaneous than Thorin let on. A stable boy was leading a mouse dun mare toward Bilbo now. Thorin nodded once and gestured at the mare. Reluctantly, and with some aid from the dull eyed stable boy, Bilbo mounted. 

Thorin led their journey through the city. Citizens young and old knew him immediately. They waved at their king, parting ways for his roan as they shouted their love and praise to him. They believed him a good man. They saw him through eyes like Bilbo had, not eyes clouded by greed like the noblemen of Thorin’s court. 

The gates of Beybridge stayed always open. The gatekeepers gave gestures of recognition as their king passed from his city onto the old southern road. Bilbo moved uncomfortably as he followed right behind Thorin, noting it had been awhile since he sat on horseback. Thorin went off the road when the gates of Beybridge was some way behind them. He raised his hand as he was entering the woods and the guards halted, obeying his order to wait. Bilbo wondered if it applied to him but pushed his horse up to Thorin’s side upon his gesture to do so. The roan didn’t much like not being completely in front and tossed her head, making a show of walking slightly quicker. 

“There’s a little spot I know of,” Thorin smiled, eyes brighter now they could see the sun and sky instead of stone walls. “Where there is game aplenty.” 

“Your Grace, should you not have your guards? They can’t exactly do their jobs if they’re not with you.” 

“Fear not, Baggins, I do this more often than I think you would like to know.” 

“Oh,” Bilbo nodded and pursed his lips. “Reassuring, Your Grace, very reassuring.” 

Thorin laughed, a grin spreading over his face, then urged his roan forward. She complied gleefully. Bilbo had more trouble with his mare but followed Thorin dutifully. They went from the woods of oak, mountain-ash and birch to a wide, grassy clearing. Tiny yellow flowers covered most of the clearing and it was large enough for the horses to gallop. Bilbo laughed as they pushed their mounts up to that speed, feeling the wind in his hair and on his face and the power of the creature beneath him. He soon realized Thorin was laughing as well, and they were through the clearing in no time. 

Thorin slowed, then halted. Bilbo followed his lead, only just realizing how out of breath he was. Thorin swung out of his saddle, groaning when his feet hit the ground with a thud, face twisted in pain. 

“Your Grace?” Bilbo awkwardly slipped from the saddle, absently leaving his mare to get to Thorin’s side. “What’s the matter?” He thought it had been going so well until this point. 

“Just my shoulder,” Thorin clutched it as he grimaced. “The wound still gives me grief sometimes, you know that well.” During his last official outing to where his sister and nephews lived, Vowgrove, a man had waited atop a roof and shot Thorin with a crossbow. The bolt had been lodged in Thorin’s shoulder. If it weren’t for the chainmail he had been wearing, perhaps it would gone through and taken a chunk of Thorin with it. Bilbo remembered weeping shamelessly when this happened, fearful that he had lost his king. He wept again a week later when the royal physician confirmed that Thorin would live. 

“I do,” Bilbo admitted sheepishly. “But that doesn’t stop a loyal subject worrying.” 

Thorin straightened himself, and flexed his shoulder. “There. I won’t let it ruin a good hunt.” 

They tethered the horses to low hanging branches and set off. Bilbo carried Thorin’s quiver of arrows, following his king as Thorin carefully moved forward. He crouched in the leaf litter behind a fallen log, gazing over to where he see the bank of a small but clean creek. Bilbo was beside him in moments, biting his lip in focus not to make a sound. 

“Deer come down here to drink,” Thorin explained in the quietest of whispers. “Now we wait.” 

It seemed like a very long wait. In his boredom Bilbo became aware of things he usually would not. Over the rustle of the leaves in the breeze and the occasional bird song, he could hear Thorin’s breathing. It was measure and calm, so focused on the creek and the prospect of a kill that he did not even notice Bilbo watching him. For decades, Bilbo had been Thorin’s main attendant. He looked after his king no matter what. He had watched Thorin’s hair grew long and grey-silver began to streak his hair and his beard. Little creases had formed at the corners of Thorin’s eyes and laughter lines were beginning to frame his mouth. Despite his advancing years, he had never married. Some spiteful, jealous part of Bilbo was glad for that. 

A deer did show itself eventually, a pretty, young doe with a white under tail. She glanced around before lowering her head to drink. Thorin pulled back his arrow and took his time with aiming, trying to get a kill shot the first time. Very, very accidently, Bilbo nudged Thorin while trying to maintain his balance crouching. The arrow was slightly off skew and whistled passed the doe’s ear. Her head shot up and she bolted immediately. 

“Your Grace, I am so very sorry–” 

“It’s alright, Baggins,” Thorin grinned and clapped his shoulder hard. “There wasn’t much meat on her anyway.” 

Bilbo still felt guilty but took heart that Thorin was not irritated. They waited for a while longer, but no other suitable game showed itself. A wild boar with nasty tusks came into view at one stage, and Thorin grasped Bilbo’s wrist and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Do not move, do not make a sound.” The boar left without noticing them, and Thorin visibly relaxed when it did. 

They walked back to their horses empty handed. At Bilbo’s insistence because of Thorin’s health, they traveled back to the guards at a more leisurely pace. When they emerged from the woodlands, the guards stood from where they had been sitting on the road and bowed to their king. “No game around, Your Majesty?” 

“Nay, not today,” Thorin said and led the way back to Beybridge and the castle. Later on that evening when Bilbo was dressing Thorin for bed, the words Thorin spoke would always make Bilbo’s heart sing; “Today was a good day, Baggins. I’m glad you came with me.” 

* * * 

The trouble brewing in Thorin’s court was only getting worse. There was talk, always in whispers, that some lords were considering not paying taxes and others were wanting to move entirely from Thorin’s kingdom. They had convinced themselves that there was no point in providing supplies like grain, cattle and work dogs to a king whom they no longer trusted. Bilbo watched with horror and without ability to do anything as Thorin’s world came crashing down. His own noblemen spoke against him openly. One even called the Line of Durin nothing but bastards. Another insisted to his fellows that the Arkenstone, locked within a steel case above Thorin’s grand throne, was a fake and that the real one had been lost centuries ago. 

Thorin could do nothing but deny accusation after accusation. The stress did nothing for his health. Bilbo saw more than anyone that the frown line between Thorin’s brows had deepened and that dark bags were forming beneath his eyes. Never did Thorin let anyone see these weaknesses. He brushed them off even when Bilbo cautiously mentioned them. On the outside, Thorin was as strong and imposing as ever, but Bilbo had to wonder how much of that was a façade. 

One evening, Bilbo was up late brewing a willow bark tea to ease a headache Thorin had been grumbling about. He lingered by the hearth, waiting eagerly for the kettle to begin to whistle. Repeatedly he glanced toward Thorin’s bedchamber, one of the doors of which was open slightly and let Bilbo see nothing more than candlelight. Growing impatient, Bilbo measured how much willow bark he had placed in the cup again. When Thorin coughed, he thought nothing of it to begin with. Then Thorin kept coughing, his breathing coming in rasping gasps that could be heard as far as the hearth. Bilbo did not wait to be admitted into the chamber as he ran to his king’s aid. Thorin was sitting on the side of his feather bed, nearly heaving. Bilbo found himself helpless and went to rub Thorin’s back. 

“Leave me,” Thorin growled breathlessly. 

“Your Grace–” 

When Thorin looked up at Bilbo with angry eyes, there was blood on his lips. It had dribbled into his beard and stained his teeth. “Leave me.” 

Against every fiber of his being, Bilbo did just that. He went back to the now furiously whistling kettle, poured the tea, and let it brew. When the temperature was right and the strength was what Thorin required, Bilbo carried it on a tray to his king. Soundlessly he strode into Thorin’s bedchambers, relieved that Thorin no longer gasped nor coughed and the blood had been wiped away. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Bilbo carried the tray to Thorin’s bedside and placed it on the little table there. He would have left then, but Thorin once again caught Bilbo’s wrist. No words were needed for that apology. Bilbo’s heart was in his throat as he dared himself to touch Thorin. With the hand Thorin was not clutching, Bilbo gently touched his cheek, running the pad of his thumb underneath Thorin’s eye. Then Bilbo moved away, his cheeks warm, unable to bring himself to hold that physical contact. Thorin was his king. Nothing more. 

* * *

The coughing became regular. Thorin’s breathing was now normally hoarse and loud. The royal physician merely said that there was something wrong with his lungs. He bled Thorin but that did nothing save for make him dizzy and nauseous. Bilbo asked softly, when he and Thorin were alone after that, that Thorin would not let the physician bleed him again. The physician was never allowed to do so again. 

One day not long after that, Bilbo was returning from a conversation with one of the kitchen staff about serving the king more things like soup when he was walking by the castle gardens. He had always adored the gardens. They were located in the middle of the castle, with walls and walkways with canopies above on every side of it. Within the middle, however, under the glory of the early summer sun, life blossomed. Trees old as the castle grew in the center, their trunks twisted and scared with age. All around them, well-tended paths of grass snaked their way around clusters of bushes and flowering plants. Bilbo used to go there every chance he got, sitting in any of the many seats littered throughout. It was the most peaceful place he had ever visited. Bilbo walked among the flowers now, surrounded by clematis flowers, fragrant jasmine and pink peonies. He stopped beside of mass of marigolds, admiring the beautiful golden faces of the flowers. They had always been his favourite. Crouching, Bilbo picked half a dozen of them, pleased with the idea of taking them up to Thorin. 

In the king’s chamber, he filled a vase with water from the pitcher and placed it with the marigolds arranged inside on the table. Hands on his hips, he nodded with satisfaction at how they looked. Thorin chose that time to emerge quietly from his chamber. “As I recall,” the king smiled, stepping tentatively forward. He had taken to midday rests and looked as though he just woke. “You used to take any chance you got to go sit in the gardens and smoke that pipe of yours. You surely didn’t stop because of me, Baggins?” 

“It’s no trouble, Your Grace,” Bilbo returned his warm smile. “I wouldn’t want to miss anything around here.” 

“Certainly not,” Thorin gestured to his still chamber, “With all of this excitement happening.” 

Bilbo laughed, gaze now down at the table. He was too aware of how close Thorin was standing, too observant about where Thorin had his hands. One of those hands moved to the vase of marigolds, taking one gently, as if he feared it would break beneath his calloused skin. Without speaking, he tucked a stray curl of hair behind Bilbo’s ear and then slipped the cool, damp stem of the marigold behind his ear also. The frilly, gold-orange petals faced Thorin, and the smile that crossed Thorin’s face was warming. “There,” Thorin spoke low, “It’s where it belongs.” 

After that incident, Bilbo would always smile when he saw a marigold flower. 

It wasn’t long after this that Thorin stopped dining with his nobles. Instead he took all of his meals in his chambers, always insisting that Bilbo stay and eat with him. It was odd to be seating as an equal with the king. Bilbo still reminded himself to use the correct honorifics, but he and Thorin still became more open with each other. They had always talked, Bilbo being one the few who Thorin could confide in knowing that not a word would ever be repeated. This trust was amplified over the coming months. More of Thorin’s noblemen lost belief in him. More and more were wishing, praying for their king’s early death. They wished for Fili to be king, so they would have someone young and supposedly easy to manipulate. They made Bilbo sick to the stomach. The faith and reliance Thorin placed in Bilbo was also due to his failing health. He now required a cane to be able to walk even mildly long distances. The coughing and headaches increased. His crossbow bolt wound caused him constant agony. His body ached and it pained Bilbo more than anything else to see him struggle to move in the mornings. The once resilient, lively king seemed to have aged twenty, perhaps thirty years in a matter of months. 

* * *

The castle was constantly buzzing with rumors, but Bilbo was not accustomed to being at the center of them. Wherever he was in the castle now, servants whispered to each other and stared at him, or nobles gave each other glances before looking back at him. Rumors were dangerous things. Since Thorin was taking his meals with Bilbo and relied so heavily on him, people thought the worst. Bilbo would be a liar if he said it never occurred to him as well. He had more than just loyalty toward Thorin. 

After running multiple errands, Bilbo was tired and dragging his feet when he returned to Thorin’s chambers. Yet when he opened the door, there was a sight that filled him with hope. Thorin stood strongly before the hearth, facing it with his hands clasped between his back and a letter dangling down between his fingers. “It’s nice to see you up, Your Grace,” Bilbo couldn’t help his smile as he closed the door and approached. “It makes for a good change.” 

“I need to talk to you, Baggins.” The coldness in Thorin’s tone nearly made Bilbo step backward. Thorin did not look back at where his serving man was standing and instead he brought to his front and stared at it. “I have made arrangements for you.” 

Bilbo felt queasy. “Arrangements, Your Grace?” 

“I feel that you are no longer safe here. People… talk. It’s better that you go now, to a place better for you,” Thorin turned to face him. Bilbo wondered if it was his imagination or that if Thorin’s eyes truly were bloodshot. Either way, the rest of his face was lined with stress and the losing of weight, and his mouth was set in a tight line. “I am spending you to Vowgrove. My sister can put you to good work there.” 

Bilbo stared at Thorin, holding his gaze. He refused to look away. “No.” 

Thorin’s mouth opened, then closed, then he scowled. “I am your king, Baggins. This is an order.” 

“You are my king. I am loyal to you, every part of me is loyal to you,” Bilbo felt his throat tighten and he pursed his lips. He would not leave Thorin. Not now, not ever. “Yes, you are my king. But you are also my friend, Thorin. I will not leave you,” he drew a shaky, deep breath in. He was so frightened but so determined. “Please don’t make me leave you.” 

You could almost see Thorin make his decision. The lines on his face smoothed slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifted. He turned briefly and the letter was thrown into the hearth. The flames devoured it, destroying the evidence that Thorin had tried to send Bilbo away. Then Thorin stepped forward, moving around the table as he went to Bilbo. Bilbo licked his lips and shuffled his feet, but he did not let his gaze wander from Thorin’s. Hands on either side of Bilbo’s face, Thorin was so tender as he lowered his lips to Bilbo’s. It was not how Bilbo had imagined when he was alone with only his drifting thoughts; sickness had left Thorin’s lips dry and chafed but that did not make Bilbo savor the feeling any less. 

Thorin pulled away ever so lightly, then pulled his face up to pressed a rough kiss against Bilbo’s forehead. They were both trembling as Bilbo melted into an embrace. He could feel Thorin’s large, bony hands on the back of his head and on one shoulder. Bilbo could feel Thorin’s collar bone jutting out against him as he buried his face in Thorin’s neck. Beneath all of his heavy clothes that kept him warm even with the summer heat, Bilbo could feel how wasted away Thorin was. This was not a man who would retain his strength. That strength was long gone. This was the body of an old man. Bilbo began to sob, almost able to feel the life draining away from Thorin’s pitiful frame. The man who was more than simply his king was dying. 

* * *

Bilbo went to the market in the city to find something for Thorin. For the past few days, Thorin had been confined to his bed. He had taken a fall and was no longer able to walk. The physician says that the wound on Thorin’s shoulder may have been infected after all, and although it closed, the infection had spread throughout Thorin’s body. Privately, Bilbo speculated that the stress of his nobles only made the matter worse. They had gotten what they wanted, though. Their king was nearing his time. 

It was at a little stall that Bilbo found what he was looking for. There were all sorts of carvings the vendor was selling, but one caught Bilbo’s entire attention. A buck, carved from pure white whale bone, with a wreath of wooden flowers carved around its neck. Bilbo purchased it, hoping that this would be exactly what he needed to help brighten Thorin’s gloomy bedchambers up. 

When he returned to the castle, all was very still. Instead of gossiping to each other when they saw him, everyone averted their gazes when they saw Bilbo. He knew something was wrong. At first he was walking slightly quicker through the corridors. Then he began to run. His chest was heaving and his heart was pounding quicker than it had ever by the time he reached the king’s chambers. His throat constricted and he tried to blink tears away as he pushed passed the many people. They were all noblemen, now standing and waiting out the deathwatch. They did not deserve to witness Thorin’s last moments when they were nothing but wretched to him. Bilbo used his elbows and burrowed through them all, right into Thorin’s chambers. There, physicians stood over Thorin’s bed. The king lay there, sweat on his brow and his skin a sickly grey. 

The royal physician gave a gasp of sudden grief and spoke to Bilbo. “He’s taken a turn for the worst–”

“Get out,” Bilbo ordered quietly. There was some confusion over what he had said. Still clutching the whale bone buck, Bilbo stood by his king and raised his voice, throwing his hand in the direction of the doors. “Get out!” He bellowed, voice breaking immediately. “All of you! Just go, get out, get out!” 

One by one, the chambers were emptied of people, including the physicians. When he heard the door slam close behind the last person, Bilbo realized he had been holding his breath. Forcing himself to breathe, he turned to Thorin. There was an eerie sort of peacefulness about Thorin’s face. He was smiling at Bilbo, full of melancholy and agony but still able to feel the joy Bilbo brought him. 

Sitting on the bed, as close as he could possibly get to Thorin, Bilbo showed him the buck. “I got you this,” Bilbo tried to laugh. It was a horrible, croaky sound. “Thought you might like it.”   
Thorin’s thin fingers mustered enough strength to feel the buck’s antlers and he regarded it fondly. “I do.” 

“I’ll leave it here then,” Bilbo placed it on the bed side cabinet. “You can look at it when you wake up.” 

There was a small rebuke in Thorin’s voice. “Bilbo.” 

“No, don’t do that. You’ll be okay. You survived the crossbow bolt. You can survive the aftereffects,” Bilbo didn’t care about the tears making pathways down his cheeks. “You will wake up.” 

“Where are your marigolds?” 

Bilbo sniffled, and shook his head. “The season of them is finished. They’re all dead.” 

“Shame,” Thorin’s voice was small. “They looked so nice on you.” 

“It’s okay. I will wear one all next season for you, I promise. You hear that? I promise. I will. Just for you.” 

“I’d like that.” 

“I know,” Bilbo took Thorin’s hand in his and kissed his palm, ignoring the taste of salty sweat. Perhaps some of that were the tears flowing. “I know. You’re so cold, Thorin.” Bilbo did not release Thorin’s hand, but moved and wriggled beneath the covers with him. All of Thorin was cold, like his blood no longer warmed him. Bilbo wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. “I’ll keep you warm.” He kissed Thorin’s shoulder than the side of his head. “Is this better?” 

“I’m very tired.” 

“I know, but please. Stay a little longer.” 

Thorin drew in a ragged breath. “Thank you, Bilbo. Thank you for everything.” 

And Thorin was gone. Bilbo still held onto him, refusing to admit he was gone. But the king was dead, and all Bilbo would be left to recall him by was memories. The next year, and every year after, he wore marigolds.


End file.
